


The Art of Palmistry

by elixirsoflife



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A Lil Bit Crack, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Community: HPFT, Fluff, Fortune Telling, Humour, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Meet-Cute, Peter is an ardent believer, Remus is a v vocal sceptic, i guess??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-21 22:15:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16585256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elixirsoflife/pseuds/elixirsoflife
Summary: A finger traces one of the lines on his palm, making him jump. The boy pays it no mind, saying, “This is your happiness line. It starts a little late but coincides with the beginning of your love line here.” He presses down on the line parallel to it. Remus’ pulse jumps. “You’re not in love, are you?” he asks abruptly.I think I’m about to be, Remus thinks absurdly.(Alternatively: Remus, a sceptic, goes to get his palm read by a fortune teller. Panic ensues.)





	The Art of Palmistry

**Author's Note:**

> i should be studying or sleeping, but instead i wrote this?? not beta-read (bc none of my things are lmao) and it probably has a few typos, but i'll go back and sort them out in the morning.
> 
> based off this [tweet](https://twitter.com/omfgitsbts/status/1059165639200460805) i saw. the original one is about yoonseok, but i just couldn't not write it for wolfstar. i'm pretty sure the OP also wrote a fanfiction about it so if you're into bts fanfiction, check that out.
> 
> otherwise, enjoy!
> 
> [russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/7888421) found here

**the art of palmistry**

“You know, for someone who claims to _read_ so much, you’re really close-minded.”

Remus drags his admittedly heavily judgemental gaze away from a stand selling pendants – _healing_ pendants, supposedly – and meets Peter’s scowl some several inches below him. He raises one eyebrow in that way he argues comes off cool (but Peter says makes him look like he’s about to sneeze) and replies loftily:

“I don’t _claim_ to read a lot, I _do_. And besides, close-minded or not, you can’t honestly expect me to believe that a cheap rock on a band from the local arts and crafts store is going to ward away all my inner demons.”

The woman selling them evidently overhears him if her acidic “If you’re not planning on buying, then you can _get lost_ ,” suggests anything.

Turning red with embarrassment, Peter throws her an apologetic look and drags him away, hissing at him to stop when Remus rolls his eyes one last time to piss the seller off. When he’s deemed that they’re an acceptable distance away from harm, he releases him with a sigh.

“You know for a Pisces, you’re such a Capricorn,” he says as if Remus is meant to know what that means or something.

Not the first time that day, he questions what on earth possessed Peter to ask if he wants to tag along to the local witch fair and what on earth possessed him to accept. In the past year that his best mate has stumbled upon and then obsessed over all things mystical and magical, he has not felt inclined to treat such arts in the same way. Call him obstinate or a stubborn piece of shit if you want, but he can’t see how anyone buys into any of this. It’s all so goddamn ridiculous.

“It’s the Mercury in me,” he says solemnly. “The retrograde is making me bonkers.”

The joke falls flat.

Lips pursed around his overbite, Peter says sulkily, “If you were going to be like this, you didn’t need to come, you know. _I_ always support you on your boring Science competitions, you could at least do the same for my interests.”

Part of Remus wants to say that there’s a world of difference between cheering him on as he works out the percentage of zinc ions in a lump of ore in record time – thus viciously pummelling his opponents with no hopes of them ever recovering – and believing that the stars dictate his love life. But the bigger part of him, the guiltier one, points out that Peter isn’t wrong. He’s been looking forward to this fair all week and it’s pretty shitty of Remus to drag his mood down.

Instead of voicing this, he says, “I’ll have you know that Lab Rats is an incredibly stimulating and exciting atmosphere actually. But I guess I see what you mean. I could be a little more… enthusiastic about all this.”

He gestures weakly to the cacophony of the fair around them. Everywhere he looks there’s chaos (so much more than is necessary in his opinion). Sellers yell out advertisements of their products as if they haven’t hand-made glittery signs bright enough to announce them to half the population of England and all around their stalls, eager witches preen over the extortionately-priced goods. There’s an atmosphere of camaraderie that he’s not quite privy to and nothing that catches his eye until –

“I’ll check that out if you’d like,” he says, nodding over to a caravan parked a little way away. It’s painted in such vivid colours it’s almost garish to look at, neon splashes of paints that clash and collide unattractively. Beside it is a lopsided post with a sign that reads FLEAMONT’S FORTUNE-TELLING: THE FUTURE IS BUT FIVE MINUTES AWAY.

It’s almost sad how quickly Peter lights up.

“You will?” he asks. “Yes, I knew I could convert you!”

Which hey now, Remus is _far_ from converted as far as he’s concerned, but it doesn’t appear to matter to his friend either way. Clinging onto him with an iron-clad grip once more, Peter drags him along to the caravan like a man on a mission to save the world, pale eyebrows meeting in the middle of his forehead with determination. Remus has never seen his little legs work so powerfully before.

“Jesus Christ, Pete,” he snaps when they finally arrive in front of the caravan (which really is quite horrendous). He’s actually out of breath. He can’t believe he’s actually out of breath. “You could’ve given me a bloody _warning_ , at least.”

“No time to waste!” he beams, pushing him towards the steps.

The door opens just then, nearly crashing into Remus and splitting his head in two. He takes a couple of steps back to let the other person out, quickly scanning them from head to toe. The boy looks relatively ordinary, one brown hand curled around a packet of cigarettes halfway out of the pocket of his bomber jacket. His eyes flash startled behind thin glasses before he gives Remus The NodTM.

You know, the Straight Boy NodTM guys give each other when they’re vaguely aware of each other’s existence. Except Remus doesn’t know this boy and their only connection is the door that one nearly assaulted the other with.

He NodsTM back.

“Be with you in a moment,” says the boy, lightly skipping down the rest of the steps. Remus watches him round the back of the caravan, concluding that he must’ve been a customer who was just served. He heeds his advice, resolving to wait until he’s called in.

“Well?” Peter prompts after a moment. “Aren’t you gonna go in?”

He gestures in the general direction the boy disappeared to. “He just said the woman will be with me in a minute.”

“I think it’s a man. Fleamont’s a man’s name, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, maybe it’s unisex. Does it really matter?”

Peter shoves him closer to the ugly yellow paint. “Just _go_ ,” he says. “I want to have mine done after you – and no, I’m not going first because you might just end up leaving me while I’m in the reading room or something.”

“I _would not!”_

He actually wouldn’t. Jesus, he’s not _that_ bad.

Scowling at the complete lack of faith in him, he ascends the stairs and opens the door that nearly murdered him, cautiously poking his head inside. The caravan looks a lot more like what he’d picture a fortune tellers to look like: blackout curtains, candles scattered about the place (albeit electric ones), incense strong and heavy in the air. It seems dark and mysterious, a sharp contrast to the psychedelic acid trip that is the exterior.

So caught up in analysing the room, he doesn’t notice the other person until there’s a smooth, “ _Hello_ ,” and he jumps with a scream.

Heart hammering in his chest, he jerks around to find the source of the voice and – oh. _Oh_. Well, shit, he isn’t expecting to find someone that pretty staring back at him, but damn it, there is. The boy sits with his legs crossed on a sofa that drowns in throws, feet bare and jewellery resting loosely on his ankles. His hair is up in a messy bun, revealing the contours of his face and all of them are so sharp that Remus can feel the papercuts already. And his eyes _, oh god his eyes_ – large and sultry with razor-like flicks of black eyeliner on the lids.

Gay panic.

_GAY PANIC._

“I…” Remus squeaks, hands over his heart.

The fortune teller regards him with amusement. “You’re here to have your fortune told, I suppose?” he asks, rising to his feet so fluidly that Remus feels like he’s about to faint.

“Sure,” he manages.

A soft smile curls the boy’s mouth. He indicates the seat closest to Remus at a small table and, when they’ve both settled down, takes his hand without so much as asking. Not that Remus protests, of course. Not when the fingers curled around his are so long and pretty, black paint on the nails. They’re a little messily done, but it’s all the more attractive.

“Hm,” the fortune teller says after a moment. “That’s interesting.”

“Um. What – what is?”

A finger traces one of the lines on his palm, making him jump. The boy pays it no mind, saying, “This is your happiness line. It starts a little late but coincides with the beginning of your love line here.” He presses down on the line parallel to it. Remus’ pulse jumps. “You’re not in love, are you?” he asks abruptly.

 _I think I’m about to be_ , Remus thinks absurdly.

“Um,” he replies. “No.”

“Good,” the boy says briskly, “because this line has not yet begun. If you had been in a relationship, I would’ve advised you to call it off because that person is clearly not the right person for you, far too boring and normal.”

Remus blinks. His shock at seeing someone so pretty – _gay panic_ , his mind supplies helpfully – subsides a little for his familiar disbelief. “You can tell all that from a line?” he says, unimpressed.

“Such is the art of palmistry.”

“Okay. Right,” deadpans Remus, as if he’s not the one who walked into the caravan in the first place. “Is there anything else the art of palmistry is telling you?”

If he notices the sarcasm, the boy doesn’t show it. Instead, he lets out a further hum and offers, “I can try to gain clues about your future love’s identity if you’d like?”

Sure. Why not.

The fortune teller rubs circles into the centre of his palm with his thumb, kneading it as he lets his eyes fall to narrow slits in his concentration. Gay panic quickly returning, Remus tries not to let it show on his face how much he likes the feeling, especially when he notices the boy peer at him from under his lashes.

 _30p Freddos_ , he thinks desperately. _The B I got on my Redox and Reductions test. Jon Snow bending the knee to Daenerys. TUPAC SHAKUR’S UNTIMELY DEATH._

“The spiritual arts have given me a clue,” comes the sudden interruption. The boy straightens up, releasing his palm (much to his disappointment) and taps his nails on the sparkly cloth of the table. “Two in fact.”

When he doesn’t say anything, Remus prompts, “And?”

“Well, the first is that you should look towards the stars – “ _Wow._ W-o-w. He didn’t think this fair could get anymore cliché, but he was wrong. Cute fortune teller or not. “- because some are awfully bright, if you know where to look.”

“Not in London.”

He laughs. “Good point,” he concedes. “But not everything is meant to be taken literally.” Of course, not. Why would fortune telling ever be that unambiguous? “And the second clue is this: love will hit you when you least expect it.”

Remus stares. “You’re fucking kidding me, right?”

“It’s what the universe said.” He shrugs.

“That’s – that’s – “

He actually can’t comprehend how _cliché_ and uninventive that is. Like. Seriously? Did this guy pick up a book on the most common phrases a psychic says in popular media and somehow think he could sell himself as the real deal? Do people actually _pay_ for this shit?

Does _Remus_ have to?

“I need some air,” he announces, standing up abruptly. He fishes out some tarnished pound coins from his pocket. “How much does it cost for a reading again – _Jesus fucking Christ!”_

The pounds fly out of his hand. Pain erupts in his leg and he crumples, rubbing at his shin with a howl. And all the while, the boy watches him with an oddly smug smile.

“What the actual fuck was that? Did you just _kick me in the shin?”_

“I did say love would hit you when you least expect it.”

Remus gapes at him. “You said that these things aren’t meant to be taken literally!”

“Some things are,” he says casually like he hasn’t just kicked a stranger in the shin. “For example, when I say you’re one of the most beautiful boys I’ve ever seen, you should take it seriously. Also, I’d like to take you to dinner. When your leg’s recovered, of course.”

What the actual fuck.

_WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK._

“You just kicked me,” Remus says faintly.

“And called you beautiful,” reminds the boy, “and offered to take you to dinner.”

“Yeah, but you _ki –_ “

The caravan door flies open and someone barges in, saying, “Sirius, what’s this a customer’s saying about someone already being in here when I – oh, it’s you.” The Straight Boy with the cigarettes blinks owlishly at him, hand rising to run through his hair. He frowns. “Didn’t I say I’d be with you in a minute?”

Wait, what?

“I – why would it matter if you’re taking a minute?” he asks, confused. “You already had your reading.”

Straight Boy blinks. “I’m the fortune teller.”

Wait, _what?_

“I thought _you’re_ Fleamont!” Remus says, turning back to the boy opposite him. He’s beginning to look sheepish now, pale ears burning at the corners with a red blush. “If you’re not the fortune teller, who the fuck are you?”

“My best mate,” says Straight Boy – or Fleamont, or whatever. “Name’s Sirius and he’s a pain in my backside. Why, what’s he been doing?”

There’s a long silence. Remus thinks back over the past five minutes. Of ‘Sirius’ smouldering at him from the sofa, of his pretty hands holding his, of his eyeliner and the way he examined Remus as he read his future. Of him asking whether Remus is in a relationship and stating that love will hit him soon and of him kicking him right in the fucking shin –

He opens his mouth, closes it and opens it again, but Sirius beats him to it.

“I’m sorry!” he cries, looking a lot less composed than he’s been during this entire encounter. “You’re just – really cute, okay? I was going to tell you that James has popped out for a minute, but then you screamed and looked at me and I realised you have really nice hands and I wanted to hold them. And yes, that sounds really creepy, but I’m an impulsive guy, alright, and you’re _really, really_ cute.”

More silence.

And then Remus points at Straight Boy and says weakly, “I thought his name was Fleamont?”

“Middle name,” says Straight Boy. James or Fleamont, whatever he’s called. “My parents wanted to curse me to a life of ridicule, you see, but the joke’s on them. Fleamont fits my whole aesthetic so much more.”

“That’s really pathetic, mate,” Sirius says, only to receive a stony glare. He quickly tacks on, “But I support you wholeheartedly on this. You’re my number one on this day and all days.”

“I best fucking be.”

“Sweetie, you know that you – “

Before they can launch into an intense session of bickering like he suspects they will, Remus cuts in, “Um. Yeah, I’m just going to go now so… it was nice to meet you and all, thank you for everything, but I – “

As he straightens up, Sirius looks over at him anxiously. Those damn eyes of his round sadly as his lips turn down with a pathetic: "But… your love line.”

Really, Remus should walk away. After all, this entire debacle has been an entire fucking mess – he knows it, they know it, the woman selling the shitty pendants knows it – and logic tells him to run far, far away from it all. But logic is nothing in the face of those puppy dog eyes nor in the quiet insecure way his voice seems to curl up on itself; it means shit all when there’s black nail varnish and messy buns involved.

He sighs.

Digs out the spare pen he carries around and leans over to scribble something on Sirius’ palm.

“There,” he says a lot softer than he intends. “There’s _my_ brand of palmistry. A little less painful than yours, but what do I know?”

Quirking an eyebrow at Sirius, he gathers his scattered coins and leaves the caravan, throwing a little nod to James on the way out since they’re now vaguely aware of each other’s existence. As he emerges into the sunshine and the hustle and bustle of the fair, he indulges in a private smile. Strange as he is, Sirius is really cute.

Back inside, eleven numbers sit on a pretty hand.

**Author's Note:**

> i am a glutton for comments and kudos, not even ashamed of it
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/dirigibleplums3) | [tumblr](https://elixirsoflife.tumblr)
> 
> (sirius was bullshitting his way through that, obviously. and remus' views are not my own.)


End file.
